


Dreaming of a White Christmas

by duesternis



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, M/M, Snowball Fight, This is essentially a Christmas fic, beechey island
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:53:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29314383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duesternis/pseuds/duesternis
Summary: Charles Best is still laughing. Or again.He’s a cheery sort, Bill has learned that in the months they’ve been sailing already.Always ready to joke with hs fellow AB’s and the marines alike. The ship boys, hell, the officers even.Honestly who does that?Bill scoffs and has a smaller sip from his tin mug.Scuffs the worn boards of the deck with the toe of his boot.They’ll have the sailors scrub it after Christmas.Have everything ship-shape for the new year and the thaw and what not.Charles Best on his knees, holystoning the deck like it’s the easiest thing in the world was a sight the first time around and Bill reckons it will be a sight now.
Relationships: Charles Best/William Frederick Pilkington
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	Dreaming of a White Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itspilkiebitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itspilkiebitch/gifts).



> "Beechey Island" prompt for day two!!

His cheeks are red. Round and red and dimpled and it makes Bill clench his teeth until his jaw aches.  
He can already feel the tension headache building in his left temple, but what else is he supposed to do?  
Charles Best is standing there, leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest, and laughing.  
The gunroom is packed with the sailors, marines and the stewards not waiting on the captains and officers in the wardroom.  
Admittedly thanks to that Bill hasn’t been this warm since the ice around Beechey started really thickening.

He still wishes himself to be on watch duty, stood uselessly on the deck and freeze to the bone.  
Just so he doesn’t have to endure looking at Charles Best and the damned way he _leans_.  
Bill swallows a too large gulp of his warm grog and tries not to choke.  
It’s a near herculean effort to draw a breath that doesn’t send him into another coughing fit and Paterson looks at him with a lifted eyebrow, face a perfect fit for Bill’s fist, but it’s Christmas.  
Not really the right atmosphere to start a fight with a fellow Marine. No matter how much Bill hates him.  
So he just forces a smile and turns back into the room.

Charles Best is still laughing. Or again.  
He’s a cheery sort, Bill has learned that in the months they’ve been sailing already.  
Always ready to joke with hs fellow AB’s and the marines alike. The ship boys, hell, the officers even.  
Honestly who does that?  
Bill scoffs and has a smaller sip from his tin mug.  
Scuffs the worn boards of the deck with the toe of his boot.  
They’ll have the sailors scrub it after Christmas.  
Have everything ship-shape for the new year and the thaw and what not.  
Charles Best on his knees, holystoning the deck like it’s the easiest thing in the world was a sight the first time around and Bill reckons it will be a sight now.

“John,” someone calls and roughly a dozen men lift their heads, call “Yes?” and Charles Best laughs.  
“Morfin, I mean.”  
The quiet man lifts his mug, not rising from his seat by the stove, “What’s it?”  
“Song?”  
There’s cheers all around and Morfin laughs, stands, comes closer to the middle of the room.  
Bill rolls his eyes. Probably another one of their sailor songs.  
Someone whips out a fiddle, another one a flute.

“God rest ye merry gentlemen?”  
“Not many Gentlemen here,” calls the cook and everyone looks down the hallway, up to the wardroom.  
“Still,” says Charles Best, “It’s a good song.”  
The fiddle player starts fiddling, the flute player joins and a moment later the atmosphere shifts completely.  
From raucuous cheer to that solemn joy Bill knows from church and the family gathering around the table on Christmas Day.  
He smiles quietly into his mug and finds himself humming along when John Morfin starts singing.

Slowly most of the men join, gather around Morfin, voices varying from the clear ring of the ship boys to the deep droning of the second master.  
Charles Best is somewhere in the middle. Clear, but not high, with a distinct lilt to it that Bill thinks sounds very nice indeed.  
There’s no stopping the music after that first song.  
It’s not always all the men, but always enough that it’s a nice backdrop.  
Even the officers must hear it at this point.  
Makes Bill wonder if they like it, or if it interrupts their little Christmas party they’re having back there.

That question gets soundly answered not quite half an hour later, when Lieutenant Fairholme enters the room with a big smile.  
The man is handsome, mustache groomed to perfection and hair sweeped off his forehead.  
There’s something patronizing in his manner, though, that grates on Bill.  
“Men,” he says and everyone stands. It makes Fairholme laugh and Bill thinks he must be a bit sloshed.  
“At ease, gentlemen. The Captain sends me, wishing you all Happy Christmas and another ration of grog for every man. Thank you for the cheer and song, it makes us all feel very at home.”  
Oh, there’s cheer then, alright.

Even Bill lifts his mug and whoops, eyes stuck on Charles Best and his sparkling eyes, the red of his cheeks.  
Looks down again, hands sweaty.  
Fairholme says something else, lost to the rush of blood in Bill’s ears and then he leaves again, the music picking back up.  
Bill downs the rest of his grog and mumbles something to Healy next to him about catching some fresh air.  
He grabs his coat and knows he will be cold up there with just that; leaves still.  
Buttons it on the way up and shoulders the hatch open.  
The cold air is like a slap to his warm face.  
Bill curses vividly and pulls his welsh wig over his ears.  
With a grunt he closes the hatch again and walks up to the gunwale. The wind cuts harshly through his coat and Bill shivers, elbows up on the frosted wood.  
He exhales sharply, breath a cloud in the cold.

The hatch slides open behind him and Bill frowns, flipping his collar up.  
Didn’t Healy get the message that he wanted to be alone?  
“Hey, Private, you forgot your muffler.”  
God damn it.  
Charles Best.  
Bill looks over his shoulder and Charles Best pulls his own muffler down from his face to smile at him, hand outstretched, Bill's muffler dangling in the wind.  
“There you go. Happy Christmas.”  
“Oh,” Bill says dumbly, takes the muffler with stiff fingers and pulls it around his neck and chin.

Best closes the hatch, buttons his coat, and joins Bill by the gunwale.  
He leans over it, looks down at the ice latching on to the ship. There are bootprints in the faint dusting of snow below.  
A lot of bootprints. And light and noise from the island.  
Maybe Terrors, in the storehouse.  
“Lord, it’s cold tonight, isn’t it?”  
Bill nods.  
“Always is.”  
Best laughs and steps a bit closer, trying to preserve warmth, probably.  
Bill lets him.  
“And stuffy down below. All those men down there makes it hard to breathe sometimes.”  
They look at each other and grin.  
Best’s cheeks are red and round still. The tip of his nose is red too.  
Bill sniffs and pulls his muffler higher. Stamps his feet.

“Didn’t know you could sing.”  
“Hm, well. Nothing else much to do in the rigging, so you pick up a few things. And most of them holler more than they sing, so it’s easy to be heard over them.”  
Bill laughs and Best grins at him, eyes sparkling.  
He puts a mittened hand on Bill’s arm, thumb patched up with red thread. It stands out starkly against the dark wool of the rest of the glove.  
“You? Do you sing?”  
“Not if it can be helped.”  
“Nonsense, I bet you have a good voice. Join in, next time, if you want to.”  
His hand squeezes around Bill’s arm with more strength than he expected.  
Best is always so light on his feet, so nimble, that he doesn’t appear strong at all.  
This is a surprise now.

Bill swallows harshly and pulls his muffler higher around his face.  
It dislodges Best’s hand somewhat and he stuffs it in his pocket, shoulders lifting around his ears. He’s not wearing a hat.  
The wind teases his hair over his forehead in a dramatic sweep.  
He's going to lose an ear, if he stays here too long.  
Bill looks down at the bootprints again, picking some out that seem to circle the ship, closely following the hull.  
Braine is on watch, stretched his feet, probably.  
Maybe checked on the storehouse, the smithy down on the island.  
Maybe checked on the light down there.  
Maybe rolled some snowballs and juggled them.  
Does that a lot, the juggling.

“Do you sing at home, with your family?”  
“Not really.”  
Bill shrugs, tries not to think of the crowded sitting room at home, he on the sidelines.  
Tries not to think of a lot of things.  
His eyes stray over to Terror, lamps lit on her deck, someone on watch passing by one, rifle shouldered.  
“We don’t sing a lot at home either. Church, sure, but else? I learned all songs I know on ships.”  
Best says this bursting with pride at the seams and it makes Bill look up at him and grin.  
“Not only the songs, I reckon.”  
“Oh, for sure. Practically learned everything aboard, I really must say.”  
It’s impossible to tell if he’s joking or not. Bill’s brow knits and it makes Best laugh.  
Shame, that the muffler hides his dimples.  
“Private, what’s with that face all the time? It’s Christmas! You should at least try to smile.”

Bill scoffs and rubs his hands together, chasing every shred of warmth.  
Someone coughs somewhere by the bow and there’s a little laugh. Seems like Braine has company on his watch.  
“Please?”  
“What?”  
“Smile? For me?”  
Best nudges Bill’s shoulder, turns, back against the gunwale, leans over to look at Bill’s face.  
It almost makes him smile, but it’s a competition now.  
“Why should I?”  
“It’s Christmas.”  
“That’s no reason, Best.”  
Best laughs, cloud of breath brushing along Bill’s face.  
“For me, then? As my present?”  
God above.

“And what do I get in return?”  
Best leans back a bit, looks up at the dark sky, dotted with thousands of stars.  
The moon lights his eyes to a bright hazel.  
Bill looks away.  
“What would you like in return? Mind, I’m not very good at knitting, or sewing, or making sailor’s valentines. My embroidery is alright, but nothing to write home about.”  
“That those shell pictures? The valentines?”  
Best laughs again and nods, muffler slipping off his nose.

“Wouldn’t know what to do with that either way,” Bill says to the bootprints in the snow.  
“Come on, Private, everyone wants something.”  
Bill can’t help but look at Terror again. Grins and shakes his head.  
“Nah. Nothing you can give me.”  
“Hmm.”  
They shiver at the same time, wind whispering around the ship.  
“We should get below again.”  
“I don’t fancy losing a finger or ear on Christmas.”  
Best laughs and Bill smiles.

Remembers half a second too late and glares at Best.  
“Oh no, I saw that, Private. That was a full smile. Golly.”  
“You saw nothing, Best.”  
“Hah. Moon out like that? I saw it.”  
Bill shoves him and Best’s boots lift off the deck, back bent over the gunwale.  
It makes Bill fist the front of Best’s coat quite hard, his other hand grabbing for Best’s wrist.  
Best laughs again and easily connects with the deck again.

“Got you there, didn’t I? Worried you a bit, huh?”  
“Sod off, Best. I’d get lashed if I let you crack your head open on the ice like that.”  
“That must be it then.”  
Best looks left, looks right, looks behind Bill and then leans in.  
Presses a cold, dry kiss to Bill’s cheek.

“Happy Christmas,” he breathes hotly against it and then pulls away, walking to the hatch and vanishing in the warmth and light spilling up from below.  
Bill clears his throat, chafes his hands together again and turns briskly.  
Climbs down the ladder and closes the hatch.  
It’s blessedly warm, there’s still music and Bill goes to collect his extra ration of grog.  
Best has his arm slung around one Hartnell brother left and one right, which looks a bit silly, with the one being so tall.  
If his hair were done right, and he were dressed up proper he’d be indistinguishable from Captain Fitzjames.  
At least from behind.

Speak of the devil.

The Captain, Sir John and Crozier from Terror, the whole throng of Lieutenants appear by the wardroom and quiet falls, as far as it can in a packed ship.  
“Gentlemen!” calls Sir John in his grandfatherly way and claps his hands over his belly.  
“Sir,” they all call and get to their feet, some with more difficulty than others.  
“Get dressed, we’re going up to collect your brothers from Terror for a little party on the island. Lieutenant Hodgson from Terror already has set up something for you all out there.”  
There’s a general cheer and the officers retreat again to get swaddled in their coats and slops.  
The whole crew bursts into activity, downing their grog, bundling up and rushing up the ladder and over deck and down to the ice.  
Bill follows at a more sedate pace, cold still sticking to his limbs and skin.  
This time he doesn't forego the slops.

Halfway between Erebus and Terror they meet the Terrors and there’s lots of shouting and singing again.  
The Marines gather at the back of the whole throng and Bill gets to walk next to Tozer.  
Tells him Happy Christmas and only gets an amused little shove in return.  
On the island, by the storehouse and the smithy Hodgson has build a little pyre, that burns merrily.  
There’s a little band and an impromptu choir led by Lieutenant Irving.  
Bill has to admit, it’s almost festive.

There’s even a cauldron of tea, with allspice, Bill hears from Heather, who’s on good terms with Terror’s cook.  
It’s not long until Bill warms his hands on a mug and laughs at the ship’s boys getting into a snowball fight.  
Terrors against Erebites, it seems, but they all look the same in their slops and caps.  
A few AB’s join them.  
Hedges and Healy too.

Ten minutes later and all but a few of the officers are slinging snowballs left and right.

Bill gets pulled into the fight by Best shoving him down to get out of the trajectory of a snowball flung by one of the Terrors.  
It’s impossible to tell who, with Best’s chest pressed into Bill’s face.  
“Sorry about that, Pilkington, I thought you wouldn’t appreciate a face full of snow.”  
Bill makes an undignified noise and Best leans back, pulls him to his feet and grins. His cheeks are aglow, there’s a sheen of sweat on his brow.  
Snow in his hair, cap lopsided.  
Bill presses a kiss to his cheek, just as quick, just as cold, as the one Best had bestowed on him earlier.  
Then he darts away and steals a snowball off Braine to knock the cap off of Wilkes’ head.

When Bill looks over his shoulder, back at Best, he finds him standing there, mouth agape and round, hand pressed to his cheek.  
Bill grins and waves at him. Gets a snowball to the shoulder for averting his eyes from the battlefield.  
“What’s all this then?” shouts Braine, gladly joining the fray, and rolls snowballs faster than Bill can follow, lobbing them almost as quickly.  
“You’re a one man army,” laughs Best, suddenly there.  
Braine grins, eyes crinkling up and the next snowball he throws topples Dr Macdonald, much to the joy of Dr Stanley.  
It’s the first time that Bill sees the uptight, solemn man laugh.

They all share a look and Best says what they all think.  
“Well, that’s certainly a first, I dare say.”  
“Merry Christmas, guess that’s as merry as he’ll ever be out here.”  
Bill snorts a laugh and ducks under a wild snowball.  
There’s a loud yelp from Torrington, the sick stoker from Terror, and everything stops for a second.

“Oh, come on, I’m alright, go on,” he calls, wiping snow from his pale face.  
He’s bundled in blankets, sat on a crate right by the pyre, and there’s always someone hovering close, in case he needs something.  
The elder Hartnell sits back to back with him, catching his breath, it seems.  
Torrington brushes snow from his shoulder and they both grin.

Lieutenant Le Vesconte throws the next snowball after that, getting Little from Terror straight in the face.  
Captain Fitzjames shakes his hand with a rakish grin and then Terror’s ice master laughs loudly and barrels the two into a pile of snow.  
It shocks a laugh out of every man and Best slings an arm around Bill’s shoulders, slapping his chest with his cold palm.  
“Did you see that?”  
“Literally standing next to you. So yes.”  
Best grins, gives Bill another slap and then runs off into the fray, to assist one of the ship’s boys escape the scary hold of some AB from Terror.  
It takes another ten minutes and some firm orders from Sir John for them all to stop, cheer unbroken.

“I don’t want any of you men losing limbs, not on Christmas especially, so let’s wrap this up and get warm again!”  
Which means a short sermon on the meaning of Christmas, three cheers and then they all stagger back to the ships, frozen through, soggy with molten snow and happier than a bunch of kittens that got into the cream.

Charles Best has an arm slung around Bill again, sharing a cigarette with him that he bummed off someone.  
Bill has only ever seen him with a pipe before.  
The sharp ember of the cigarette suits him not quite as well as the more diluted glow of a pipe’s bowl.  
Still.  
Handsome.  
Bill pulls the smoke gratefully into his lungs, holds it, lets it warm him, and then exhales.  
Hands the cigarette off to Best again and their hands brush.  
Best licks at the end of the cigarette and inhales deeply.  
Bill cannot look away.

There’s molten snow hanging like pearls in Best’s hair, probably freezing into little ice drops with the wind hounding them back to the ships.  
His cheeks are warm and red and he smiles at Bill, puts the cigarette directly against Bill’s cold lips.  
It’s wet from Best’s mouth and he takes it.  
Two men jostle them, rushing past, and Best steadies them both with the gentle sway of a sailor’s easy gait.  
It’s embarrassing, how Bill’s heart throbs in his chest, how his hand scrabbles for hold on Best’s coat.  
How he wants to crowd Best against the hull of the ship, crusted in ice as it is, and kiss his red cheeks again, kiss his mouth.  
God above, he wants to write letters to him.  
And Best is right there.

“Oi,” Best says quietly as they wait for their turn on the ladder down into the warm belly of the ship.  
Bill looks at him, hands buried deep in his pockets.  
He can’t feel his toes.  
“Meet me at five bells of the first watch, down by the engine.”  
“Why?”  
It’s dangerous to meet aboard ship, even in the dark of night and the solitude of the engine room.  
“For your Christmas present, silly,” quips Best and vanishes down the ladder like a fish into water.  
It takes a gentle push from the next in line to make Bill climb down too.  
Hell, this is going to be very dangerous.  
He can’t wait for first watch.  
Five bells, Best had said.

Bill lies awake, counting the minutes, the bells, until – by his reckoning – it is shortly before five bells.  
He creeps out of his hammock, into his boots, his sweater and jacket and then sneaks through the packed room to the ladder.  
A few men turn and grumble as he passes them, one or two bleary eyes blinking at him, but Bill has that sort of face that makes people unlikely to ask him what he is up to, so he arrives at the ladder unscathed.  
Climbing down it in the dark is a whole other matter.

Bill slowly feels his way down and then he stands there in the black and feels quite stupid.  
He doesn’t even have his matches on hand.  
“Pilkington, that you?”, comes a soft voice from the dark and then a lamp, half opened, sheds a dim glow over the deck.  
“Best?”  
“Yeah, come through. You’re early.”  
“Didn’t want to be late.”  
Bill crosses the deck as quietly as he can, meeting Best by the passageway leading down to the engine.

“Come, it’s a bit warmer by the engine,” frosty breath by Bill’s ear and then Best takes hold of his wrist and leads him to the engine.  
He seems to know the way well and Bill is glad to follow his sure steps until the air warms minutely.  
They sit down by the stoking door, coal smouldering for the night.  
Best opens the lamp a bit more, the warm glow showing the red of his cheeks.  
Bill leans over and presses a kiss to one.  
Longer and warmer than outside in the snow.  
They have the privacy now, and Best recieves it gladly.  
Best cradles Bill’s hand in his and turns his head, lips touching shortly to Bill’s.

“Do you want your present?”  
Bill leans back, cheeks warm, and nods.  
Best reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and holds a little parcel made from sail cloth out. It is bound with repurposed twine from a ham, if Bill isn’t mistaken.  
Certainly smells a bit like ham.  
“Just-” Best points at one of the loose ends of the twine and Bill pulls.  
The whole thing unravels in his hand and he laughs softly.  
“Sailors and their knots.”  
“Point of pride, you must know.”  
“Oh do I ever.”

Bill folds the sail cloth over and away and is greeted by dozens of little golden squares, sparkling in the low light.  
A piece of paper, folded into a triangle, something drawn on it, in the middle of the treasure.  
He puts the chocolates in his lap and holds the piece of paper closer to the lamp.  
“Is that a lobster?”  
“Supposed to be one, at any rate. I hope you don’t find it offensive.”  
Bill scoffs and elbows Best.  
“Hardly looks like one, so I shan’t ask for retribution.”

Best chuckles and puts an arm around Bill’s shoulders, pulling him closer to the lamp, as if Bill weighed nothing.  
He grumbles good naturedly and unfolds the triangled lobster, leaning into the warmth from the lamp and Best equally.  
Best has written a letter, the lines pressed close together to fit as much on the scrap of paper as possible.  
“I can’t read it in this light.”  
“That’s fine. But please read it with as much privacy as you can manage, I am a bit embarassed by it all,” says Best with a little chuckle, fingers plucking at his beard.  
Bill looks at him from the corner of his eye, folds the letter back up and digs his elbow into Best’s ribs again.

“Don’t worry, I won’t have Morfin sing it over supper.”  
“Much obliged, Private Pilkington,” he says and sketches a bow, winks at Bill.  
For a moment they just sit there, pressed close, floor cold under them, warmth gathering in the hollow between their bodies.  
The golden foil of the chocolates makes a delightful crinkling noise that reminds Bill of Christmas Crackers, somehow.  
He shares the first square with Best, who eats his half straight from Bill’s hand and whispers a “Thank you” against his fingertips.  
Bill grunts in response and busies himself with unwrapping the next piece and breaking it in half.

“It’s your present, you don’t have to share with me. I know where they store the chocolates, so I can always get more.”  
“It’s my present, I can do with it as I like. Eat up.”  
Best laughs softly, leans down and takes the chocolate from Bill’s fingers again.  
This time his tongue touches Bill’s skin.  
It’s warm, wet, and makes Bill’s heart hammer in his chest.  
He doesn’t pull his hand away and Best smiles, kisses down the thumb and into the palm of Bill’s hand.  
His beard is faintly scratchy against the cold-rough skin and the rasping sound fills the silence.  
Bill inhales and Best exhales hot into his hand.  
It makes Bill shiver.

“Here,” says Best and gently pulls Bill closer, into his lap.  
Bill goes willingly, chocolates spilling from his lap and on the deck.  
Best is warm and solid and his hands slide under Bill’s jacket, cover the small of his back.  
His lips taste like chocolate.  
His breath is warm on Bill’s neck, his mouth hot.

“Oh,” Bill says quietly and buries his hands in Best’s hair.  
Presses his nose into it and inhales the dusty, sweaty scent of his scalp.  
Best mouthes at the collar of Bill’s shirt, the dip between his collarbones.  
“Hey,” Bill tugs gently on Best’s hair and he comes up with a slick mouth, eyes dark.  
Bill kisses him open-mouthed and pushes him back against the engine, hips bearing down.  
And, even with all the layers between them, he’s pretty sure that Best is interested.  
Bucks up against Bill and breathes a little noise into Bill’s mouth.  
“Can I-?”

Bill makes a gesture halfway from shrug to nod and Best takes hold of his arse with both hands and holds him in his lap, as he bucks up again.  
It leaves Bill slack-jawed, little grunts punched out of him with every thrust.  
There’s power in those thrusts, power that Bill wants to know better.  
He wrestles with Best’s jacket, the buttons of his trousers and Best stops moving when he notices what Bill is trying to do.  
Helps him.  
Gets his hands on Bill’s trousers and has his hands inside of Bill’s smalls in a matter of seconds.  
All breath is punched out of Bill.  
Best’s hands are warm, by God.

With a whimper he will later deny Bill ruts into the warm grip and buries his face in the crook of Best’s neck.  
His hands are uselessly tangled in the tails of Best’s shirt.  
“Shhh, hey,” gentles Best him, stroking Bill’s spine with his free hand.  
He lays tender kisses on Bill, wherever he can reach.  
It takes a while until Bill comes up from his hiding place, cheeks red and wet with sweat and hands shaking against Best’s belly.  
Best kisses him.  
Sweet and gentle, thumb swiping over the vein on Bill’s cock.

Bill plunges his hand into Best’s linens and fists him in retaliation.  
Firm and warm and such a relief to be allowed this.  
Bill licks into Best’s mouth and starts frigging him, swallows the surprised little yelp with a grin.  
It doesn’t take long for Best to pick his pace back up and not long after that and they are both panting hotly, sweat sticking their shirts to their backs.  
“This’ll freeze, as soon as we stop,” Best whispers hoarsely into the mess he’s made of Bill’s hair.  
“We best not stop then.”  
“Heh, best.”  
“Oh, come off it, I didn’t do that on purpose.”

Best twists his wrist in a wicked way that makes Bill scramble to swallow a shout.  
“I did that on purpose though, and I’ll make you spend on purpose, promise.”  
“Damn your eyes,” says Bill, with no bite and a fond stroke of his thumb under one of Best’s eyes.  
Best smiles at him, hand still moving, still twisting, hell-bent on making Bill spill first, it seems.  
Bill leans down and kisses Best and redoubles his own efforts.  
His knees are aching from kneeling on the cold wood, and Best must be numb too, but it all slips into the background tableaux, when Best sucks on his tongue and presses his palm roughly on the slit of Bill’s cockhead.  
He’s pretty sure he makes an undignified noise and then, Best letting go of his tongue to kiss him again, he spends.  
Best grins into the kiss and helps Bill through it.

Then he gently dislodges Bill’s limp grip from his own cock and takes himself in hand.  
It’s the filthy palm, Bill’s seed dripping from it.  
“God,” he moans and Best nods, head leaned back against the engine, eyes heavy lidded, but never straying from Bill.  
“Feels good,” Best says, mouth a little round shape, with his pink tongue pressing against his teeth.  
“Hm. Looks good.”  
They both laugh.

Bill wraps his hand around Best’s and together they frig him until he spends.  
It’s shockingly thick and hot on Bill’s skin.  
He’s pretty sure, if his hands were colder, it would leave a red mark on the skin, the sheer heat of it.  
He’d cherish it.  
Licks it from his hand, for now, and cherishes the salt and bitterness, the way it feels on his tongue.

Best does the same, licking his own hand as clean as he can get it, before pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and cleaning the rest off them both.  
Bill stands on wobbly legs and puts his cock away again, the air very chilly, all of a sudden.  
His boot knocks against one of the golden squares of chocolate.  
They are scattered all over the deck.  
“Here, I’ll help,” mumbles Best and together they pick them up, put them back in the little sail cloth square.  
“Thank you.”  
“Of course. Merry Christmas.”

Bill stands on his tip toes and presses a kiss to Best’s round, red cheek.  
“Merry Christmas, Best.”  
His smile is mesmerizing. Bill could look at it all day.  
“Merry Christmas, Pilkington.”  
He leans down, kisses the corner of Bill’s mouth and together they walk up to the ladder.  
Bill up first, Best to follow in a few minutes.

He stores the bag of chocolates under his pillow and is asleep before Best passes Bill’s hammock and pulls his blanket higher over his shoulder.  
It’s the best Christmas they could possibly have had out here in the ice.

They both dream of the Passage and the next Christmas under palmtrees and on white sand, snow a distant memory.

**Author's Note:**

> AND THEY LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER, THE END


End file.
